


Glass Soldiers

by Lone_wolf625



Category: The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Gen, Magnificent Seven AU: ATF, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-17 21:53:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10603014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lone_wolf625/pseuds/Lone_wolf625
Summary: No job is ever just a cakewalk. Vin should have remembered that...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first-time posting to AO3 - its also my first Mag7 story. (well, okay, that's not entirely true, but its the first one that's seeing the light of day beyond my computer and another short story that i got brave enough to post on FB. 
> 
> If it sucks- well, sorry. If you like it- well, that's just awesome. 
> 
> Of course- there's all those disclaimer thingees (sure I'll screw that up) [Nope don't own 'em, didn't create 'em, Hollywood folks did... ain't makin' didly squat off 'em... feel free to sue - everyone else has.]
> 
> Mostly gotta give props to Mog who created the ATF-verse and I'm thinkin' there's somebody who tagged Vin as "Junior" somewhere along the line... if it looks like I stole anything else - well, it wasn't intentional, just I read... EVERYTHING... EVERYWHERE... so some of its bound to seep into my brain. 
> 
> And oh- it ain't been beta'd - 'cause I don't know of anybody. So, uhm... err... yeah. 
> 
> If I haven't bored you or chased you off by now... maybe a tiny (itsy-bitsy) lil' warning about some borderline PTSD going on here or the beginnings of it. But hey, I'm not a shrink, (but I did stay at a Holiday Inn Express last night...)

 

 

 

**Glass Soldiers**

  
  
  


By legal standards, he was over the limit when he climbed behind the wheel of his Jeep, jammed the key into the ignition and peeled away from the curb as though somehow the very concrete had wronged him. But the effects of the alcohol he’d consumed up in his dark, cold apartment blended smoothly with the miasma of thoughts vying for dominance in his head blurring out any rational thoughts for what was legal or safe.

 

Vin hadn’t started off intending to drink, in fact, he wasn’t a much of a drinker at all; not by society’s or anyone’s real standards. Sure, he’d have a beer or two when he was out with the boys, but he rarely if ever had anything stronger and more often than not, he was the defacto designated driver for Buck, Josiah or occasionally even Chris. To say that he was a bit of a control freak was like saying Ezra had a big vocabulary; something of an understatement. It wasn’t like he didn’t enjoy cutting loose, it was just that he felt more compelled to be responsible for everyone else. To be prepared and watch their backs.

 

Yet tonight, that sense of duty and obligation had succumbed to a tidal wave of doubt and recrimination; Vin’s failure to perform his self-appointed commission was what had lead him to this place.

 

Maybe he was destined to end up here all along.

 

It had been a  simple recon, another non-descript warehouse, and there hadn’t even been “bad guys” in the place. They were checking it out for a future buy, making sure they held the upper hand, holding the home field advantage as it were instead of letting the dealer set the tone. It should have been safe, they thought it was safe; he’d told them it was all clear.

 

Until it wasn’t.

 

Suddenly, from out of the shadows some meth-head staggered into the path of Chris and Buck as they worked their way through the massive structure. At first, the disheveled and obviously incoherent man appeared harmless, his uncoordinated movements making him seem like less of a physical threat and more of an annoyance.

 

Until he wasn’t.

 

Vin watched in horror from where he had been surveying the mezzanine as Chris and Buck attempted to communicate with the bedraggled man. Like a vicious dog, he exploded on the two agents, snarling and spitting, arms thrashing about. Buck blocked the attack, raising his arms to fend off the blows while Chris stepped around and tried to get an angle where he could subdue the man.

 

Tanner would never know where it came from, whether the addict had the gun hidden somewhere within the layers of ragged clothing covering his dirty and lice-infested body, or if he had somehow managed to grab one of the guys’ service weapons from where they had them holstered either on their shoulders or hip. But however it happened, Vin jerked as the distinct sound of a 9mm firing echoed through the vacant building.

 

He yelled at the top of his lungs. “GUN!” Then begged for Josiah and Ezra to provide back up, cursing his own inability to provide assistance from his current position. His final action was to shout for Nathan to “come quick”; the unmoving form signally the need for the team medic.

 

Time halted, sped up and then slowed again as he scrambled to get down to the lower level, missing steps and nearly falling the last several feet in his haste. Screams reverberated in Vin’s head; those of the now apprehended shooter and those that were the disembodied shouts of denial already pounding behind his forehead. He could barely focus beyond the singular vision of the body lying still on the floor below.

 

Chris was down.

 

As the sharpshoot drew near, his eyes caught sight of the splatter; the red blotch and droplets marring the filthy floor just beside and extending beneath his best friend’s upper body. He dropped to his knees beside their leader, reaching tentatively for Larabee’s hand, desperate to touch but fearful of what that contact might reveal.

 

At some point, Nathan arrived, working silently and efficiently as the rest of the team looked on. But Vin barely noticed. His eyes were locked on the spreading crimson and the discordant noise in his head. He didn’t hear the sirens that signaled the arrival of EMS, never heard Buck and Josiah hand off a still-ranting perp, didn’t acknowledge when Nathan tried to assure him that Chris was alive and breathing and heading to the trauma center at St. Anthony’s.

 

Somehow, Vin made it to the hospital. He vaguely remembered Buck, or it might have been Josiah, gently pushing him toward one of the team SUVs. The short trip downtown was unmemorable, the occupants conversation subdued by worry.

 

The wait was interminable, and even after word came back that Chris had made it through surgery and would eventually recover from the bullet’s damage, Vin remained firmly in place in the surgical waiting room. In fact, as the rest of Team 7 filtered in and out of their leader’s room, the stoic sharpshooter took up a silent watch from a chair just inside the doorway. He came neither closer nor ventured any further away; not for any reason as the minutes turned to hours and the hours watched the sun set, rise and set once more.

 

Vin didn’t speak to any of the others, didn’t acknowledge the presence of the rest of the team or any of the medical personnel who came and went with regularity as they cared for the unconscious blond. His eyes never wavered from the silent form on the bed as he sat hunched over, arms tripoded on his knees in a position that tortured even the strongest back and neck.

 

The others made numerous attempts to break through his self-imposed isolation, his self-induced persecution, but to no avail. Their words of comfort and encouragement were drowned out by the beeps of the cardiac monitor and the soft whush of the ventilator; their conversation muted by the continuing barrage of dialogue that was running through the young agent’s head.

 

It eventually took threats from Nathan…

  
“Vin, if you don’t go home and get some sleep and food, I’ll have the docs here ban you from SICU.”

 

Pleas from Buck…

 

“Vin, c’mon pard, you gotta get back in the game here. Ol’ Chris wouldn’t want ya’ blamin’ yourself for some crazed meth-head lookin’ for his next fix and pullin’ some dumbass stunt like that. C’mon now, Chris is gonna need ya, hell… we all need ya.”

 

And finally pure physical intervention from Josiah…

 

“Okay Vin, let’s go now son. JD and I are gonna drive you on home and when… _WHEN_ … you get a solid eight hours of sleep, we’ll see about you comin’ back down here again.”

 

And with that, his teammates, his friends, his brothers-in-arms, literally took him by the arms and guided him, unresisting, from his best-friend’s side and out of the hospital. He remained silent the entire trip home despite JD’s best efforts to engage him in conversation and under Josiah’s growing concern at the young man’s increasingly withdrawn behavior.

 

They followed him up to his apartment, still talking despite his muteness. Numerous attempts to get him to eat the luke-warm food they had picked up from the Taco Bell on the way to his Purgatorio abode failed and the two  finally acquiesced to leave when it became clear that Vin would be pushed no further.

 

“I’m good,” he announced after nearly thirty-plus hours of silence. “Call me if anythin’ changes…”

 

The two agents turned for the door, the elder profiler hesitating momentarily as he watched Tanner slowly drift toward the window in the old tenements’ open living room. Josiah briefly considered remaining behind, worry niggling the hairs at the nape of his neck. But he knew it would be unwelcomed by the quiet man, and quite possibly even met with greater hostility. He frowned and pulled the door closed behind him.

 

And so Vin found himself home alone, his head still buzzing with the internal voice shouting words of recrimination.  

 

_You failed…_

 

_Let down your best friend…_

 

_Missed the gun…_

 

_Nearly got Chris killed…_

 

_All your fault…_

 

_Should have seen…_

 

_Stupid…_

 

_Worthless…_

  


He pushed away from the window, the evening shadows encroaching like silent enemies onto his hide. He knew he couldn’t be still enough, wasn’t concealed well enough, no ghillie suit in the world could camouflage him from what was stalking him.

 

Vin crossed to the little kitchen. He fumbled with the bag of fast food, but the lack of heat coming off the wrappers guaranteed instant reappearance in the toilet considering how his stomach was hardwired to his current mental state.

 

Turning to the refrigerator, he hunted instead for something to slack the dryness in his mouth. Beside the half empty gallon of milk, the only other offering was the remains of the 12 pack Buck and JD had brought over a week before during the Rockies game. He snagged one out, popping the top and tilting it back as he leaned against the open door.

 

Vin never intended to slam back all five remaining beers, nor had he intended to drink them like they were bottles of water and he had just ran a marathon. But the truth was, the first did wonders for quenching his thirst after nearly a day and a half of essentially nothing more than small paper cups of water that one or the other of the guys had forced into his hands.

 

The second merely followed the first, albeit slower and for a brief moment, it threatened to come back up, but Vin swallowed it back down and stepped away from the fridge, tucking two more into the crook of his elbow. He staggered over to the couch, weariness suddenly robbing the muscles in his legs of their normal strength and dexterity.

 

Dropping back onto the threadbare but overstuffed sofa, he finished the second beer, closing his eyes as the voices crescendoed.

 

_Damn stupid idiot…_

 

_Can’t protect your team…_

 

_Chris nearly died…_

 

_All your fault…_

 

The third bottle cap was tossed across the room, bouncing off a bookshelf before ricocheting back towards the t.v. screen and finally pinging back to land on the coffee table.

 

Vin chuckled wanly. “Not a sharpshooter for nothing…”

 

 _Worthless sharpshooter…_ the voice in his head retorted.

 

_Couldn’t save your best friend…_

 

_Didn’t even take a shot..._

 

As the third beer went down, the voice became noticeably quieter. Or maybe the numbness settling into his brain and body was making him care less? Whatever the reason, Vin found that it was becoming more tolerable to exist.

 

Somewhere deep down, he knew on a logical, sensible level, this wasn’t a smart course of action. He shouldn’t be drinking on an empty stomach. He needed to be alert in case something happened with Chris. But then, when had he actually done anything smart in the past 48 hours?

 

Polishing off the third bottle, the fourth was little more than a footnote to the evening.

 

_Such a loser, Tanner..._

 

_Such a failure…_

 

Vin replayed the events from the warehouse over and over again, like a DVR in high definition, he had startling clarity of the moment when the homeless druggie pulled the weapon and fired it directly at Chris. His mind’s eye provided vivid recall of the muzzle flash, of Larabee’s body launching backwards, of Buck fighting to get the gun before it could be fired again.

 

God, he could have lost two of his friends. And all because he hadn’t seen, hadn’t warned them soon enough. Hadn’t found the threat before it was realized. Hadn’t acted to neutralize it.

 

Tanner pushed his buzzed and bone-weary body from the couch, heading for the refrigerator and the final bottle of liquid anesthetic.

 _Get your team killed someday..._ the voice in his head whispered like a demented lover.

 

He pulled the final beer from the box but didn’t open it. Instead, he crossed to the bedroom and grabbed his range bag from inside the closet. Not bothering to check what was inside, even in his intoxicated state, he knew there was at least 2-3 handguns and a variety of ammunition within.

 

Swiping the keys to the Wrangler, beer in one hand, duffle in the other, he headed out. There was no real direction planned, Vin just knew that if he couldn’t be of any use to the man lying unconscious at St. Anthony’s, then he was going to at least make sure that he wasn’t a liability in the future.

  


Fate at least was on his side, the roads were relatively empty and any police presence was blessedly absent. Vin drove aimlessly at first, tempted to head out to the ATF range and shoot until he was as physically numb and broken as he felt mentally. But at some level, he knew that while he had carte blanche access to the facility, getting caught after-hours, intoxicated and in his current state of mind was likely to be an infraction that even Travis couldn’t dig his ass out of.

 

Turning back west, he headed instead to the second best range he knew of; guilt and regret haunting him as the miles slipped by and he approached Larabee’s vacant ranch. Vin tried to tell himself that in fact, he was just checking on the animals and the homestead in Chris’ absence.

 

It was the least he could do - should be doing- for his injured friend.

 

But in truth, the lanky sharpshooter hadn’t considered that the widower already had contingency plans for caring for the livestock or that Buck had already checked in on house and Larabee’s mail. They all watched out for each other’s places, it was an unspoken agreement should one of them be out of town at a conference, tied up on an op, or stuck in the hospital when something went wrong. How many times had Chris done the same for Vin? Nathan for Josiah, or Buck for JD?

 

If Vin had been thinking straight, if his blood alcohol level hadn’t been approaching something near the point of unconsciousness, he likely would have remembered. But as it was, between the slowed synapses, the single-minded determination to purge the voices screaming his failure, and his loss of connection to the brothers that grounded him, Vin Tanner continued on his mission to rectify the wrong he had allowed to happen to his best friend.

 

Pulling up the long drive to Chris’ place, he felt his heart pounding within his ribcage. It felt like a violation to be here without the blond under the circumstances.

 

He stopped the Jeep near the deck, killing the engine and nearly tumbling out the driver’s side as he pushed open the canvas doors. Glancing first toward the barn, he could tell that someone had already put the horses up for the night. He smiled in relief, briefly glad that his poor coordination wouldn’t be challenged to corral some of the recalcitrant beasts and then have to bed them down.

 

Turning back toward the house, he figured to make a quick run through and maybe grab a beverage or two before heading out to the back portion of the property where Larabee had put in a well-appointed shooting ground. Using his key and tapping in the security code, the house was mostly dark and ominously quiet as Vin made his way past the mudroom and through to the main portion.

 

He glanced around, noting how everything about the place bespoke of his friend. Hints of his days in the Navy, pictures of his deceased wife and son, old western memorabilia, even pictures of the team, were strategically placed throughout the house.

 

It was a home in every sense.

 

_And what if Chris doesn’t get to come back to it?_

 

_Your fault…_

 

_Failed at your job…_

 

Vin spun back around abruptly. He felt like an intruder and needed to get out of his friend’s house. Rushing for the back door, he passed the mudroom refrigerator; Chris’ spare where the blond kept extra meat in the freezer and mostly extra beer and beverages in the fridge for when the team gathered.  Haunted and harried, Tanner was desperate to exit, but he paused just long enough to peruse the “beer fridge” as the boys referred to it, hastily grabbing a Coors Lite 12-pack before bolting for the backdoor.

 

Once outside, the skies had opened up, releasing a cool mist-like drizzle. It wasn’t an all-out downpour, which would have just suited his current mindset. No, it was just enough to cling, like a early morning dew; tiny droplets glistening on his outer clothing but not quite seeping through.

 

Vin barely noticed the precipitation, other than to absently swipe the slow accumulation off his forehead when it trickled into his eyes. With the beer tucked under one arm, he managed to snag the straps to the range bag sitting on the hood of the Jeep. His end goal driving him forward, Vin’s feet stagger-stepped through the darkness past the deck and beyond the shed and nearest outbuildings.

 

The shooting range had been built a fair distance from the house and the barn, and while this was originally so that the loud report from the weapons wouldn’t disturb the horses, Tanner was both thankful and regretful for the added distance tonight. While he most definitely sought out solitude, between the alcohol and recent lack of proper food and rest, his body wasn’t really up to the hike.

 

Still, the voices urged him on. More determined to answer the call driving his heart and soul rather than succumb to the threatening weakness in his legs, the gnawing hollowness  in the pit of his stomach that seemed to be both simultaneously churning and growling, and the weariness that beckoned his consciousness to shut down; Vin doggedly made his way out to towards the shooting range.

 

He stumbled, barely catching himself from landing face down and sprawled on the wet ground, the case of beer slipped from his grasp and nearly crashed at his feet. He managed to trap it against his body, stopping the descent at the last moment but earning a few bruises from where the corner of the cardboard box jabbed painfully into his hip and upper thigh.

 

Vin regrouped, staggering ahead, determined to reach his destination and aided by the nearly full moon that was intermittently peeking from between the rain-laden clouds. Set back against a low hill that lead up into the nearby foothills of Mt. Falcon Park, Larabee had chosen a natural formation of rock and dirt as a perfect backstop for sighting in a new gun or simply shooting off a few rounds if the mood struck.

 

Tanner had used the makeshift range numerous times, often preferring it to the government one because it wasn’t as conditioned or perfect, the targets not set-up and controlled by mechanical means, or results measured by lasers and computers. When he practiced here, it was more like real-life situations, just him, the weapon, and the elements. The only thing he could never completely mimic was the human response; be that teammates, bystanders or targetst.

 

But then, wasn’t that why he’d ventured out here tonight when really, he’d normally be holding vigil at his best friend’s side?

 

He’d made a mistake; a potentially lethal one in this case. And the one thing Vin Tanner had learned in the Army was that mistakes would never be tolerated. In fact, the Army, more specifically, the Rangers, had very carefully drilled into him how mistakes would be corrected.

 

_Swiftly… harshly… and with no mercy._

 

Mistakes in Boot got you kicked to the rear and cost you extra P.T. or the day’s meal. Mistakes in Ranger School got you kicked from the program. Mistakes in SERE, got you seriously injured and maybe even busted out of the Teams. But it was all because that a mistake on an op usually got you, or your team, DEAD.

 

Damned if that lesson hadn’t come back to bite him now.

 

“Not paying attention,” Vin mumbled aloud as he neared his destination. “S’posed to be the eyes… s’posed to be watchin’.”

 

Tossing the gear bag onto weather-worn picnic table that the guys had brought out and used for staging or just to observe, Vin then managed to set the beer down and sagged to a seat on the nearest bench. He sucked in a deep, shuddering breath, but it did nothing to calm his mind or the slight shake his hands had seemed to acquire in the past 48 hours since the incident.

 

Deciding he needed something to _still/steel his nerves,_ Vin reached for the nearby case, ripping apart the cardboard and pulling out the glass soldiers inside. Opening one, he took a long pull, ignoring the bitter flavor of the hops and grain, the young man quickly finished the first of the fresh batch relishing the heightened warmth as the alcohol rushed through his system.

 

Drawing another toward him, he twisted off the top and took a slower drink, knowing he needed to remain in some semblance of control in order to complete his mission. Pushing the bottle slightly out of his way, the sharpshooter leaned across the table to pull the weapons bag toward him.

 

It slid easily, slick against the wet wood. Vin tugged back the zipper, reaching inside to retrieve one of the hard-sided handgun cases. Not tending to keep them locked when they were stored in his range bag, the case opened with a flip of the two latches. Inside, this particular container was set-up to hold three weapons, although Vin had only stored two. The waterproof case also had slots for up to 16 magazines as well as his ear protection and range glasses.

 

Since this was for Tanner’s “extra” guns, the case contained a HK USP 9mm Tactical. While Vin was a devout Sig Sauer man, he wasn’t a purist and respected quality in a weapon. If he truly had his way, he’d likely carry a Colt Model 70 .45, except that the Powers That Be back in D.C. felt old model weaponry wasn’t nearly as good or trustworthy as the latest “plastic” stuff that was being created. To a point, they were probably right, but good ol’ Colts could withstand saltwater, rain, even swamps and still come up firing nine times out of ten.

 

The other gun Vin pulled out was a Sig Sauer P227 Nitron .45ACP double stack. While most law enforcement personnel preferred handguns with a larger magazine capacity, Vin knew it was about accuracy, not firepower.

 

_Except when you didn’t shoot at all…_

 

He checked the magazines for the Sig, thumbing out the first few rounds, rolling them around between his fingertips and then replacing them. He easily slid the clip into the weapon, the tell-tale “snick” confirming it was loaded. Setting the pistol on the table, he turned back to the open bottle and rapidly drained the second; his stomach momentarily rebelling against the rush of alcohol.

 

Vin pushed up from his seat at the table, vertigo assaulting him and forcing his hands to grip the edge to maintain a vertical.

 

_Loser… and now a worthless drunk too?_

 

_Can’t do anything right, Tanner? Just keep letting people down…_

 

_Didn’t watch your team’s back…_

 

_Didn’t protect Chris…_

 

_Mistakes… mistakes… mistakes…_

 

The young agent snatched several bottles from the ripped open case and shuffled across the distance to where the guys had created a few different static targets. At the time, they’d been pretty creative, using everything from metal rounds salvaged from the Federal range to stacked tires and large 50 gallon plastic drums filled with dirt to create the bullet containment. Sometimes, they’d attached smaller targets like playing cards or even bottle caps to the larger stops, just as a challenge. Of course, Vin was rarely allowed to participate, especially when there was money involved.

 

He crossed in front of the tire wall, a five foot tall by four column wide of old, used treads. Chris had collected them from a variety of sources, some from the old tractor he kept around the ranch, others from the guys when they changed or upgraded their vehicles; even Vin’s Jeep had donated a couple to the cause.

 

Reaching up, the marksman carefully placed both the empty and a couple of the full bottles of beer atop the black circular mounds. The bottles stood at attention, tall and straight like obedient soldiers, unmoving and unyielding as Tanner turned and strode back to the picnic table.

 

Pulling several magazines for both weapons from the open case,  he gathered the  pistols tucking the .45 into the back waistband of his pants. WIth his free hand, he managed to snag two more bottles of beer before moving towards the covered pergola they’d built to serve as a firing line. He set one of the fresh Coors on the shelf, opened the other and took a healthy swig, swiping a stray mass of wet hair off his forehead with the back of the hand holding the loaded HK.

 

“Yeah, great job a gun safety there…” he mockingly criticized himself. “Just be your dumbass luck to blow half your damn head off tryin’ to see.”

 

_Stupid..._

 

_Almost another mistake…_

 

_Just can’t do anything right… can you?_

  


The mist had increased to a full-fledge rain now, dropping the temperature along with generating a slight wind. Protected by the roof of the shooting bay, Vin barely noticed the increased wetness that was coming in from the sides and seeping through the seams in the rough-hewn top. He was already wet, the same clothes he’d been wearing that day in the warehouse now saturated from his disregard to the conditions. At some level, he noted the cool moisture clinging soggy, heavy, fabric against his body, could feel the skin on his arms, legs and trunk pebble with gooseflesh. It was all just a minor inconvenience.

 _  
_ _What was warmth when Chris was struggling to breathe… fighting to replace lost blood… lying in a hospital bed connected to IV lines and machines… barely alive..._

  


Besides, no one died from hypothermia in the middle of May. He’d survived worse conditions.

 

Tossing back another mouthful of beer, Tanner stepped up to the line and leveled the HK downrange toward the targets. In the rain and augmented by his altered vision, the amber colored bottles were little more than vague shadows atop the mounds of black tires.

 

His arm wasn’t nearly as steady as he counted on it being, so he reached up with his off-hand to steady his right wrist.

 

“Rookie,” Vin grumbled.

 

He gently eased the pressure on the trigger, squeezing it so it didn’t jerk or pull the weapon and deflect the shot. The 9mm jerked in his hand as the bullet was fired and he watched as bottle to the far left remained stubbornly intact.

 

“Fuck!” Tanner cried out in response. Without lowering his arm or barely skipping a beat, the Team 7 sharpshooter fired off four more rounds in rapid succession; the flash from the muzzle briefly illuminating the darkness in front of him.

 

The first two struck below the bottle, into the uppermost tire, causing the container to wobble but not fall or shatter. The third sailed past the thin neck, impaling the dirt mound behind the targets; although Vin couldn’t track it in the darkness. The fourth and last, by some luck and not in this instance any of Tanner’s usual skill, clipped the very mouth, shearing off a portion of the top but not destroying the bottle.

 

Vin stepped back and surveyed his results in disbelief. Five rounds and not a single one had hit mass.

 

“Worthless… sonofabitchin’ worthless… goddamn… useless… fuckin’ sharpshooter. Can’t hit th’ broadside of a barn n’ ya’ expectin’ ta’ have the team’s back?”

 

His hand reached for the nearly empty beer he’d been drinking but before it reached his lips, Vin cursed and launched the drink against the nearby support. It shattered, sending shards of glass in every direction including the tender flesh of the tormented agent’s left hand.

 

If it hurt, Vin didn’t acknowledge the pain. Either too numb, too drunk, or too focused on the mental and emotional pain he felt, Vin didn’t notice the piece of glass that slashed into the palm of his hand or the resulting rush of blood.

 

Turning back to the line, renewed and determined, Vin raised the weapon once more and taking careful aim, shot the next several rounds at the three left to right bottles. His first shot would take the neck, followed by a second that would destroy the thicker bottom.

 

“Fuck you!” he screamed at the targets.

 

Ejecting the empty clip, he replaced it with another and quickly took aim at the remaining bottles. The staccato but evenly spaced shots echoed in the quietness of the remote property, accompanied only by the soft patter of raindrops on the wood roof and surrounding foliage.

 

Vin could hear the tinkling of glass as the bottles were fractured by the bullet’s impact, and he twitched as the similarity of the results on a human body flashed through his mind in picture-perfect clarity. He paused in his self-imposed retraining-slash-punishment to consider the the parallel.

 

Staring down-range, forcing his eyes to focus despite darkness, rain and vision distorted by far too much alcohol, Vin considered the lone bottle still standing. The lone glass soldier.

The rest lay broken, fractured pieces scattered on the ground across the target line. In the dark, Vin couldn’t help noticing how the amber color resembled blood, the small bits looking like splatters made by the impact of the bullet into flesh.

 

_Like the bloody pool and spatter left behind on the gray concrete of the warehouse floor._

 

“Never a’gin,” Tanner swore vehemently.

 

Dropping the 9mm to the shooting bench, he stepped outside the cover of the shelter pulling the .45mm Sig from the back of his jeans and pushing it stiff-armed out in front of him.

 

Steel-eyed fixated on the last target, he trudged determinedly forward, the soggy ground pulling at his booted feet.

 

The voice in his head had rose, the words succinct and clear as Vin fired.

 

_No more mistakes…_

 

His finger pulled the trigger, the Sig recoiled in his hand and the bottle burst.

 

_Never a’gin let the team down…_

 

Another shot, this time aimed at a small remaining segment. It too disappeared into crystallized dust.

 

_Gotta be better, gotta be perfect… can’t let the other’s pay the price…_

 

He advanced closer, discharging three rapid shots at the empty case he’d left behind by the last stack.

 

_Can’t lose one of the boys… my job to protect ‘em…_

 

The final five rounds in the Sig’s magazine were spent in quick succession as Vin emptied it into the painted target on the large barrel. They hit dead center, rocking the barrel on impact.

 

He ejected the empty magazine and quickly thrust in a fresh one nearly dropping it out of his rain-slicked and blood covered hands.

 

 _Too little, too late for Chris…_ The voice in his head reminded him.

 

The vision of his best friend, the other half of his very soul, lying bloody and silent on the dirty floor filled the sharpshooter’s mind. He froze in his action, arm extended in preparation to fire, but halted by the heart-wrenching ache deep in the center of his being.

 

He wavered where he stood, blinking away a mixture of tears and the rain that was cascading down from soaked hair that was matted to his head. The gun became an unbearably heavy thing in his hand, a weight that usually was an imperceptible extension was now making his hand tremble. His arm quivered, dropping slightly as he staggered on the rain-soaked ground coming to a stop in front of one of the mounded sets of tires. Reaching out, he made a weak attempt to grab for the uppermost ring, his left hand slipping, calloused fingertips tearing against rough rubber and broken glass.

 

_Broken… irreparable..._

 

Another vision of his friend and team leader in the SICU, deathly pale and connected to medical paraphernalia now flashed in front of his eyes. The doctor who spoke to the team, telling them how the bullet had fragmented after hitting Larabee’s clavicle then bouncing off to tear into underlying vessels and his lung. The blood loss was massive and the internal damage was critical.

 

_No! Chris!_

 

After two days of no sleep, no food, too much alcohol and far too much stress, Vin Tanner’s body gave in. His legs succumbed to the fatigue and lack of proper signals from the mentally overwrought brain and chose that moment to fold beneath him, dropping the suffering agent to his backside amid a sloppy, splash of mud.

 

_Your fault… all your fault…_

 

“NO!  CHRIS!” He cried aloud this time.

 

_Didn’t watch his back…_

 

_Didn’t protect him…_

 

_Can’t save your team…_

 

_Didn’t save Chris…_

 

Leaning back against the bullet stop, Vin squeezed his eyes tightly closed, desperate to shut out the haunting visions, to block out the words that continued to accuse and damn him.

 

“S..sorry… s..s..so...s’...sorry…” he sobbed, broken-heartedly.

 

_Sorry doesn’t make it right…_

 

_Sorry won’t save Chris…_

 

“I… I… know… c...can’t change… m...mistake…” Vin stammered. “Worthless… s...stupid…” He raised the Sig Sauer resting limply in his lap and stared at the weapon. Even in the rain and mud, the .45 still held a lethal sheen; a power that threatened destruction in the right hands.

 

Wasn’t that the key? The weapon was only that… a weapon in the right hands. But not his, not on that day when Chris had needed it to be the most.

 

Anger surged through him and he smashed the .45 against the side of his head, inflicting pain while he was determined to quell the current agony he was suffering. Again and again, the stainless steel slide crashed into his flesh, the rough metal first bruising then tearing open the skin. Vin didn’t care, was beyond caring about his own well-being. No physical pain could possibly compare or compensate for what he’d done or what had happened.

  


“S...stu..pid...fuck’n… s-s’ry s’cuse… for’a… sharp...s..shoot’r,”

 

Blood flowed freely down the side of his face, thinned by the rainwater seeping from his soaked hair. Tanner knew he was a mess. Covered in blood, mud and God only knew what else, he was soaked through to his skin, drunk off his ass and absolutely incapable of any coherent, reasonable thought beyond the single-minded focus of guilt and atonement to Chris.

 

Even if Larabee recovered, he just didn’t know how he would ever prove to his friend, his team, his brothers, that he could be relied on to perform the job that they all counted on him to do. How could they trust him after such a catastrophic failure?

 

He couldn’t blame them if they never did.

 

Failure was failure…

 

And the proof was lying back there at St. Anthony’s fighting to survive. And if Chris died...

 

Nothing he could say would ever change this…

 

No amount of time would ever erase the outcome of his mistake…

 

Nothing he would ever do would restore the lost trust from his friends and brothers…

 

No one would ever replace Chris…

 

Glass soldiers… fragile and breakable, like the bottles he’d been shooting at, were they any different? Broken, cast aside like so much blood-red glass, only to be swept up and maybe glued back together, yet never really back to the whole, original form.

 

_And whose fault is that?_

 

“Goddammit… MINE!” he shouted back to the voice. Sighting the nearby pile of quartered wood, he raised the .45 and took aim, firing as fast as the weapon would allow until the entire clip was empty. He screamed incoherently the entire time.

 

When he was done, his wrist ached from the solid recoil of the high-caliber automatic. The pile of wood now had a smaller pile of kindling lying in front of it. His voice was gone, raspy from the abuse and overall lack of proper food and drink.

 

Vin was exhausted, as spent mentally and physically as the weapons and ammunition he’d brought to this place. No closer to absolution than when he came, he simply did not have the strength to continue. Instead, he sank back against the tires, uncaring how the rain and mud sucked the warmth from his lithe frame.

 

_Discomfort he deserved…_

 

_Pain he was due…_

 

The bile in his stomach rose, no longer held at bay by movement and his determination, Vin tried to stifle the vomit but bumped his lacerated hand against his mouth. Refusing to cry out, he could only turn his head as the vile contents erupted, covering the ground and splattering his jeans.

 

The stink of stale beer, stomach acid and even the copper smell of the blood both from his hand and his head assailed him. Not even the fresh spring rain could mask the harsh odor. The young agent was sure that within the repugnant mix, his own unwashed body was also contributing.

 

He was a mess. His pathetic physical situation only adding to how culpable he already felt.

 

Vin stared down absently at the hands lying open in his lap. How had he gotten to this point?

How did he get back to normal from here? Was it even possible anymore?

 

_If only he’d seen that gun…_

 

_If only he’d reacted faster…_

 

_If only he’d protected Chris…_

 

_If only…_

  


He needed to get back to the hospital. Should be back at Chris’ side. Tomorrow would be another day to start making up for the mistakes. Tonight, he should be standing by his friend.

 

Except his body refused to obey.

 

Vin tried to push to his feet but vertigo held him on the ground. His stomach rolled again, vomit rising to the back of his throat. He knew he was in trouble, consciousness was drifting and spending the night out here, in his current condition, was another stupid move in a long list of half-assed choices he’d made in life.

 

He pushed down on the soft mud, but finding no purchase, Tanner collapsed in a heap, rolling to his side as the movement brought up more from his beer-laden stomach. He blinked against the raindrops that plopped steadily downward on his eyes until eventually his brain gave up the fight and they fluttered closed.

  
Vin succumbed to unconsciousness, no closer to absolution and oblivious to the four concerned friends coming to find him  just miles  away.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Help arrives...

 

 

“Josiah, just drive straight up there. If he’s been out here this whole time, he’s gonna be soaked to the core.”

  
“Buck, can you reach those blankets in the far back?”

 

“I’ll grab your jump bag, Nathan.”

 

“What was Junior thinkin’? Damn that boy, runnin’ off, out here in the rain, and God only knows what he’s doin’ with those gun’s a’ his,” Buck lamented. 

 

Four of Team 7’s members rode together as they approached Chris Larabee’s custom made shooting range out on the backside of his property. They’d come hunting for their missing teammate and friend when two hours had passed and a suspicious Josiah had gone back to check on Vin only to find the sharpshooter’s apartment abandoned, empty beer bottles scattered about. 

 

At first they thought that Vin had merely decided to come back to the hospital, but when another hour had passed and the agent was still M.I.A., their collective concern fed by the team profiler’s voiced misgivings about their friend’s state of mind, turned into full-blown panic. Putting their heads together and relying on their innate abilities for detective work, it didn’t take long to figure out that Vin had headed out to the ranch. 

 

Deciding to leave Ezra behind as liaison between the hospital and the team, they made haste to Chris’ home, hoping and praying that their  friend had merely sought solace among the animals there. Upon arrival though, the parked Jeep, the lack of Vin in either the house or the barn all pointed at one other possibility. 

 

Unspoken fear played out in each of their minds, yet no one had the courage to voice their suspicions. They each had witnessed Vin’s odd behavior after the shooting. And while it wasn’t out of the ordinary for any of them to have to pry Chris or Buck, even Nathan kicking and clawing away from the bedside of one of their compatriots, Vin’s absolute muteness was bizarre behavior even for him. 

 

“He’s blaming himself,” Josiah explained. “I’m not sure why, but somehow he’s got it in his head that the reason Chris is lying in that hospital bed is solely his fault.”

 

Buck huffed out air. “Well that’s just ridiculous. Hell, I was _ right _ there. Had that fuckin’ crack-head pointing that gun right at me… came outta nowhere. There wasn’t nuthin’ Junior coulda’ done. There wasn’t anythin’ anyone coulda’ done. Jus’ a freak fuckin’ thing.”

 

“We all know that, probably Vin even knows that on some level,” Sanchez agreed. 

 

“Then why’s he’s out here, in this shitty weather? Why ain’t he back there with Chris?” JD asked.

 

“ ‘Cause he thinks he failed,” Nathan answered quietly. 

 

“Failed?” JD exclaimed. “How? Like Buck said, no way did any of us go in there expecting that? It wasn’t like we were prepped for a bust. And we certainly didn’t expect some meth-head to try to take us out. Heck, Vin didn’t even have his rifle. How could he feel responsible for taking a perp out from way up there when he wasn’t properly armed?”

 

“Because it’s his job, JD. Doesn’t matter when or where. Doesn’t matter whether it was planned or what the conditions were, he’s our sharpshooter and his job is to watch out for us up high. To watch out for threats that we can’t see.” 

 

The young tech grunted disapprovingly. “You make it sound like it’s all Vin’s fault. Like he’s to blame for what happened to Chris.”

 

Josiah interrupted, glancing to the back seat to cast a firm eye at the younger man. “That’s not what Nathan is saying, John Daniel. He’s merely trying to explain the _ why _ . Why our Brother Vin is behaving and reacting the way he is.” 

 

“I understand him,” the black medic continued. “I feel sorta the same way. Every time I miss an injury on one of you all, or I can’t help you, it doesn’t matter what the circumstances. Whether you all get hurt in the line of duty or you try to hide something from me during off hours, I still feel responsible. Why do you think I hound you all like some over-protective mama bear?”

 

JD nodded silently while Josiah chuckled quietly. Buck let loose a bit of nervous laughter. 

 

“Hell Nate, I just figured you watched after us to help keep the health insurance premiums down. Maybe Orin put ya’ up to it… cut you a discount on the side,” he teased.

 

The foursome laughed, but the dire silence quickly returned as Josiah drew the old SUV up close to the dark shooting range. He parked off to the side near the picnic table, the vehicle’s headlights illuminating portions of the area. 

 

They immediately noticed Vin’s range bag laying atop the table. The large canvas bag lay open, the hard gun case similarly sitting out and exposed to the elements as well. 

 

The four agents scrambled from the Yukon. Josiah left the engine running, turning the heat up in anticipation of what condition they might find the wayward sharpshooter. Buck wasted no time, his long strides carrying him to the picnic table and examining the open containers. 

 

“Vin!” he shouted, calling out to his young friend. 

 

Nathan came more prepared, a flashlight held in hand, sweeping it back and forth towards the shooting line. 

 

JD moved ahead, younger eyes affording him better eyesight in the darkness than that of his teammates. He made it to the cupola, noting the spare clips and the left behind HK. 

 

“He was here,” he called out. 

 

“Well, where the hell is he now?” Buck shouted back. 

 

“He’s gotta be here. Surely he wouldn’t have just went off in the dark, in this weather?” Josiah asked.

 

Nathan moved ahead, scanning further into the darkness and looking down range to where the backstop showed the results of Vin’s earlier efforts. Shattered glass was sprinkled haphazardly across the ground in front of the many stacks of tires that they’d placed as bullet stops. 

 

_ Empty beer bottles? _ Nathan assumed. Not the sign he’d hoped to see. 

 

Shining his light further left down the line, the beam reflected off a small, dark shape near the base of one of the large plastic drums. Nathan nearly skimmed past it, so nondescript and seemingly little more than an odd collection of dirt or mud. 

 

Then it moved. 

 

“Holy hell, Vin?” the team medic exclaimed. “Guys, over here, quick!”

 

The other three men responded without question, dashing over to Nathan’s side despite the somewhat precarious footing. The dark agent wasted no time in reaching the downed sharpshooter, carefully beginning his assessment of the silent and seemingly unresponsive man.

 

“Nathan… is he… he’s not… uh… umm…” Buck asked softly, tentatively; his voice thick with fear. 

 

The E.M.T.’s fingers pressed lightly at the corded length of tendon and artery on the side of Vin’s neck. The silence that fell over the group was oppressive as the others waited for his answer. 

 

“He’s alive…”Nathan answered with his own breath of relief. “But his pulse is pretty slow and no doubt he’s got a bit of exposure going on here.”

 

“Can we move him, Nate?” Josiah asked, his hulking form bending near and taking the flashlight from the other’s hold in order to provide better light. 

 

JD spoke up in panic. “He’s covered in blood. Nate, look! Where’s the blood comin’ from?”

 

The medic nodded, his fingers carefully tilting Vin’s head to the side while gently pushing away the agent’s soaked and matted hair, he revealed one of the sources. The small laceration was still sluggishly seeping, coating the side of Tanner’s face with a thin veil of red. 

 

“This is definitely part of the problem. But I’m not sure if it’s his only injury. Can’t be too sure or too careful. No tellin’ if he fell, or something else happened.”

 

“Do you want me to call for an ambulance?” Buck asked, worried that they would soon be holding vigil over two of their friends. 

 

“Let’s get him down to the house, get him dried off and warm and see what’s going on first…” Nathan suggested, sharing a cautious glance with Josiah. 

 

“But Nate, if he’s hurt bad…” JD insisted. “He’s unconscious for God’s sake!”

 

Josiah turned to the worried young man, still maintaining the light so that the medic could work. 

 

“Son, take a look around. Think about what’s happened tonight. What do you see? How has Vin been acting?”

 

The dark-haired young man spared a careful look about the scene. Even in the dark, he considered the area. Broken glass lay scattered across the base of the backstops. Amber-colored, if there was any mistaking what it had been the leftover cardboard box sitting a few feet away left no denial. 

 

He knew Vin had been drinking at his apartment, had seen the empty bottles. Apparently, his friend had continued when he arrived at the ranch. In fact, now that he was paying attention and drawing closer to the unconscious man, he could definitely smell the odor of alcohol and more coming off in waves that the earlier rain had done little to wash away. 

 

“Can we help him?” he asked solemnly. 

 

“We will certainly try.”

 

“Alright, I can’t find anything broken… let’s be real careful and get him off the ground and into the Yukon. Get him wrapped up and warmed up,” Nathan directed. “Buck, you and ‘siah, get his head and feet. Ain’t like he weighs more than a bag of wet feathers on a good day.”

 

The men hurried to their task, Josiah handing off the flashlight to JD before gently reaching under Vin’s shoulders while Buck carefully bent down to take the limp man’s legs. Lifting him was only hampered by his dead weight, but their movement roused the younger man and Vin began to thrash within their grasp. 

 

“ Wha… ohhh… no… s..stop… p...pl...please...whosit?” Vin groaned as he tried to regain any focus. 

 

“Shhh… Vin, it’s okay. It’s just us. We gotcha. You’re gonna be okay. Everything’s gonna be okay.” Buck tried to reassure him.

 

“N-no… n-not ‘kay. Nev’r ‘kay… ‘gin. Failed ya’.” 

 

The lanky agent struggled more, arms pulling as he fought to break away from his friends. But he was far too weak and fatigued, still too deep under the influence of the alcohol to coordinate any movement against the two larger men. 

 

“Relax, son,” Josiah spoke gently down beside Vin’s ear. “You didn’t fail anyone. Certainly none of us, and definitely not Chris. Let us help you recover so you can get back to your friend.”

 

“Chris…” Vin moaned. And for a moment, his eyes were wide and wild, unfocused and staring into the darkness. They felt his muscles go rigid, prepared for him to launch into another fight to get free, but instead the tormented young man dropped back to unconsciousness, his eyes rolling back in his head as his body went slack. 

 

“He’s out again,” Nathan announced. “Let’s get him out of here. I need to get him checked out and make sure that head wound isn’t something worse.”

 

Buck shook his head as he and Josiah moved toward the SUV with their precious package. 

 

“Damn but that boy got a world of hurt goin’ on in his head and heart,” the big man lamented. “ S’ a wonder he can even stand up with all the weight he’s heapin’ on those shoulders o’ his.”

 

“All the more reason that we help lighten that burden, help support him and lift him up when he falls,”Josiah replied. “Sometimes it’s easier to focus on the wounds that bleed and miss the ones that do the greater damage but leave no outward signs.”

 

“Yeah, well right now, Vin’s got a bit of both. And I’m not ready to have to explain to Chris when he wakes up why his best friend is in the hospital with alcohol poisoning or hypothermia,” Nathan stated determinedly. 

 

The men reached the Yukon and smoothly eased the limp form inside to the back cargo area. JD and Nathan quickly covered him with the blankets and Josiah turned up the heat as far as the vehicle’s controls would allow. Buck pulled down the third row of seats to create more space and jumped into the back seat, leaning over so that he could assist with anything the medic needed. Once Nathan was ready, the profiler carefully pulled away from the darkened range and began their slow return back toward the main house. 

 

The four men retreated to their individual silence; one offering up a prayer that his young friend would receive a healing to body, mind and soul, another questioning how his good friend had chosen to take such drastic-seeming steps. The third man unconsciously divided his thoughts between checking his teammate for further signs of injury and monitoring his breathing and vital signs while simultaneously questioning how he had missed the obvious signals  of the sharpshooter’s declining mental status. 

 

And Buck, he simply reached over the back seat and held on. His hand tightly grasping Vin’s shoulder, his fingers wrapping into the cold, wet fabric of the younger man’s shirt. He refused to let go, offering strength and silently promising that he’d see his friend through this crisis. That he wasn’t about to lose Vin - or Chris - or any of his makeshift family to some lousy freak accident. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Resolution - Tanner style...

 

 

 

Dawn was heralded by a bright sunrise, promising warmth and perhaps with the absence of the evening’s rain, something akin to hope for the four men gathered at Chris Larabee’s home. While still early, they each were awake and moving about the kitchen; the exception being Nathan, who remained at the bedside of the still sleeping sharpshooter. 

 

The E.M.T. had started an I.V. to replace lost fluids, and between the men, they had stripped, cleaned, and redressed the wayward agent, burying him under a mound of warm blankets and swath of bandages. Nathan had stitched the wounds to his forehead and hand, meticulously plucking small fragments of glass from the palm of his hand before irrigating and closing the open lacerations. 

 

And although the others came and went throughout the night, Nathan remained steadfast. Concerned that Vin might have suffered a concussion, might vomit and aspirate, might try to get up and run. Deep down he knew their friend probably should have been evaluated in the E.R., but given Tanner’s utter hatred for medical facilities and considering his present state of mind, he and Josiah agreed that at least until they could talk to him - somewhat rationally - they wouldn’t inflict any other undue stressors. 

 

So it became watch and wait. Or in Josiah’s case, watch, wait and pray. Or for Buck, watch, wait and pace. And of course there was JD who simply worked off his nervous energy by playing on his cell phone in between checking on his friend. 

 

Vin had woken once during the early morning hours, disoriented and unfocused, he seemed to have no immediate recollection of the past several hours or his actions. But his body painfully reminded him of the abuse he’d inflicted upon it and seeing Nathan’s concerned face hovering above him, he groaned as his stomach rebelled. He heaved until there was nothing left, but never spoke, his expression remaining vacant before he slipped back under the void of oblivion once again.

 

FInally, around 11 am, Tanner’s earlier twitching and eye flutters became a more coordinated effort to wake. He moaned, shifted slightly amid the covers, and tried to lift his arm only to find it restricted by the IV line. 

 

“Lie still, Vin. You’re at Chris’, it’s Friday mornin’,” Nathan advised.

 

Vin blinked rapidly, trying to focus on the blurry image of the dark-skinned man leaning in close to him. 

 

“N-nate… ahhh, shit…” he bemoaned, wrapping his uninjured arm across his stomach. 

 

Nathan smirked, placing the back of his hand across Vin’s forehead. 

 

“Yeah… pretty much the response I’d expect after a case of beer.”

 

“Din’t drink ‘em all,” Tanner objected with a grimace. 

 

“S’pect you drank enough of ‘em. What were you thinkin’, Vin?” 

 

The long-haired man met his eyes, blue orbs red-rimmed and showing volumes of emotion. 

 

Vin remained stalwartly silent, either unwilling or unable to respond to the question. He finally closed his eyes and turned away. 

 

Nathan sighed. 

 

“Vin, how ‘bout I get you somethin’ to eat and drink? You can’t live off air and IVs.”

 

“Yeah… sure… whatever,” Tanner mumbled back. 

 

The medic watched him a moment longer before exiting the room. He was out of his league on this one. Better to let Josiah or even Buck have a go at working on Vin’s current headspace. He’d take care of all the physical wounds. 

 

Entering the kitchen he found the others nursing cups of coffee. JD had finished a sandwich and was putting away the makings. 

 

“Hang on a sec. Can you put together something simple for Vin,” Nathan requested, absently rubbing the back of his neck. 

 

Buck looked up from his mug. “He’s awake?”

 

“As such.”

 

“He say anythin’?” 

 

“Not in so many words.”

 

Buck and Josiah’s eyes met. 

 

“Somebody’s gotta talk to the boy. Gotta get him talkin’. He can’t let this shit fester,” Buck insisted. 

 

“We should tell him about Chris,” JD suggested. “Maybe that will help?”

 

Josiah nodded and pushed away from the table to stand. “Brother Buck, I do believe we have our work cut out for us.”

 

Buck rose as well. “I ain’t givin’ up on him ‘siah. Ain’t losin’ my friends.”

 

“From your mouth to God’s ears, son. JD, you got that sandwich ready? Maybe we can add some cookies and a soda. Best to go armed with the right weapons?”

 

That elicited a bit of laughter from the others until a crash from the hallway diverted their attention. Tracking to the sudden noise, they dashed towards the back bedrooms only to pull up short when a bedraggled Tanner stood leaning against the doorway to the family room. 

 

“Junior… What the hell?” Buck exclaimed. 

 

“Vin, what are you doing up? You need to be resting. And what did you do with the IV?” Nathan chastised. 

 

“Yeah, Vin… you look awful. And how come you took off last night. We were really worried about you. God, you scared us half to death,” JD added in. 

 

Vin looked up wearily, his eyes casting back and forth between the men. 

 

“Stop… jus’ s-stop,” he begged weakly, waving his bandaged hand in an effort to stave off the onslaught of questions. 

 

More voices.

 

Josiah stepped forward, slowly with his hands outward, palms up and opened to signal that he wasn’t going to do anything to threaten the shattered young agent. 

 

“Vin..” he softly began. “Nobody’s trying to hurt you… we’re here… well, we’re all here for whatever you need from us.”

 

The embattled man gazed up, and Josiah could tell he was wary. But there was something more in the depths of the startling blue orbs. 

 

Fear? 

 

Desperation?

 

Need?

 

Vin’s body began to tremble, whether from weakness or the onset of illness, it didn’t matter. Josiah hurried to close the distance, Buck instantly at his side, and together they tenderly guided their friend towards the large couch. 

 

That Vin offered little resistance was a strong statement about both his physical as well as his mental state. He collapsed bonelessly onto the seat, uncaring or possibly even unaware when Josiah and Buck took up seats to his left and right; close but not pressing in. 

 

JD retreated but quickly returned, hands holding a paper plate containing a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, several Oreos and a tall glass of cold milk. Vin received them with a weak smile, setting the plate on his lap, and taking a long sip of the milk before handing it back. 

 

He absently fingered the sandwich, feeling four sets of eyes on him, waiting for his first bite. Opting for the cookie instead, he bit it in half, chewing slowly and swallowing for fear his empty stomach might prefer to remain that way. 

 

There was a low grumble, two days with little intake - liquor withstanding - and suddenly Nabisco was manna from Heaven. He finished the cookie and grabbed another, relieved when his stomach seemed settled and agreeable to what he was giving it. 

 

“If you want something different… I can get it… just let me know. Whatever you want, Vin,” JD fumbled. 

 

Tanner looked up at his young friend. The eagerness could not mask the worry on the techie’s face. 

 

Vin faked a smile. “Thanks JD. This is fine. Guess’n my stomach isn’t gonna want a whole lot to start.”

 

“Take it slow and easy…” Nathan advised. “Anything’s better than… well,  just eat what you can, Vin.”

 

Motioning to JD, the medic turned and slipped from the room, content to let the other two men manage the upcoming conversation. Josiah watched the younger men leave then turned his attention back to the quiet figure seated beside him. 

 

He observed Vin for several moments as the long-haired agent nibbled at the Oreos and tore at the sandwich. Vin’s eyes were downcast, his attention strangely focused on his hands as they worked on manipulating the food. 

 

From his position, the profiler could see as Tanner’s eyes flicked over every fine detail and movement. It was almost as if he was waiting for the extremities to fail, to make some sort of error or mistake. As though if he took his eyes off of them, somehow they might betray him. 

 

“I s’pect I owe ya’ll an explanation?” 

 

Shrouded by the loose hair that cascaded down past his face, the sudden comment coming from the formerly nonvocal man startled the other two. 

 

Josiah cleared his throat before replying. 

 

“You don’t  _ owe  _ us anything, Vin. But we’d surely like to help you get this load that you’re carrying off your shoulders,” he responded.

 

“Yeah, Junior, we jus’ wanna help. Tell us what’s goin’ on in that head of yours? Why’d ya’ take off last night?” Buck added. 

 

Vin drew in a shuddering breath, lifting his head to stare across the room. His eyes landed on the huge mantle above the fireplace and the framed pictures scattered across it. There were a couple of Chris and Sarah, one of the team leader and his family, even a slightly worn picture of Chris holding Adam as a newborn. 

 

But beyond those were newer photos. Ones of the team together at functions, still others taken more candidly during some of their impromptu get-togethers. And at the center of them all was the picture from last fall. Chris and Vin, arms around each other’s shoulders as they stood in knee-deep water hoisting beautiful rainbow trout in triumph. One of many similar memories he’d shared with the man who had become his best friend and brother.

 

Thanks to his carelessness, had he lost that forever?

 

Josiah followed his gaze, rising to cross in front of the fireplace he blocked Vin’s view and picked up the picture of the SAC and the sharpshooter. Walking back across the room, he moved in front of the large french doors that led out to the sprawling deck with the picturesque view of the mountains. 

 

Holding the framed photo in his massive hands, he drew Vin’s attention away from the other distractions. 

 

“Did you know we spoke to Ezra at the hospital this morning?” he asked casually. “No… I supposed you couldn’t have known that.”

 

Tanner’s attention was fully on him now.

 

“They extubated Chris this morning. You know what that means don’t you?” Josiah continued. 

 

Vin blinked slowly and after a moment he shook his head. 

 

“He’s wakin’ up, Vin,” Buck added almost giddily. “Ezra said that the doc is pretty happy with how he’s doin. Said takin’ him off the vent is just the first step to gettin’ him out of SICU. Before you know it, he’ll be awake and bitchin’ ‘bout everything from the food to havin’ to use a bedpan.”

 

Vin remained quiet, seeming to absorb the information. He looked between his two friends, his face void of any obvious emotion. 

 

“Thas’ good news... “ he said finally, his voice barely more than a whisper. “But he ought not be in there in tha’ first place... if’n I’d had just done my job.”

 

And there it was. 

 

Buck sighed and shook his head sadly. 

 

“Aww, Junior. You can’t be blamin’ yourself for what happened. There jus’ wasn’t anyway  _ ANYONE _ coulda seen that comin’, much less stopped it.”

 

“Vin, do you think Chris blames you?” Josiah asked. “Do you think that when he wakes up that he’ll be angry or upset that your didn’t do more to keep him from being shot?” 

 

Tangled brown hair lifted, blue eyes glinting with moisture rose. 

 

“I failed, ‘siah. Made a mistake. I nearly got him killed.”

 

Buck slid closer and gripped the young man by the shoulders, turning him so that he was face to face.

 

“You didn’t shoot him… some whacked out meth-head looking for a fix did. You didn’t make a mistake. You did NOT fail at anything. This wasn’t an op, Vin.”

 

Vin gulped air and swallowed thickly. 

 

_ They didn’t understand. It was his job, his responsibility. _

 

“S’posed to have ya’lls back… s’posed to be the eyes up high,” he insisted. “I did’n even see it… did’n even pull m’ weapon.” 

 

_ Failure… _

 

_ Worthless… _

 

_ Let Chris down… _

 

The voice was back, screaming in his head and drowning out the words of his friends. 

 

“Vin… Vin… VIN!” Josiah shouted, coming closer to get the distraught man’s attention. “Look at me. Listen to me. And I want you to answer me honestly.”

 

He waited until he felt sure the sharpshooter was paying attention and ready to respond. 

 

“What is your job?”

 

Tanner looked at him dumbfounded. 

 

“Seriously, Vin. What’s your job? What’s the official job description? Do you even know? I do, I help write and edit them for the department.” Sanchez continued. “Would you like me to help you out on some of the key essential functions?”

 

Vin shook his head and answered.

 

“ I gotta be able t’ maintain marksmanship quals of at least 95 out of 120, I gotta be accurate from a minimum of 500 meters both daylight and dark as well as other simulated conditions, I have to perform standard search, seizure and other law enforcement procedure, and I have to maintain perfect scores in Stress Fire Skills. I go where my SAC says, and protect my team during any ops situation from hostile threats,” he stated defiantly. 

 

Josiah nodded. “Yep, most of that is pretty accurate. IF - I had asked you what it took for you to DO your job.”

 

“But..”

 

“Listen to me, Vin. I’m asking you, WHAT is your job?”

 

The quiet sniper looked even more confused and hurt. 

 

_ Your job is to watch out and protect your team…  _

 

_ The job you managed to fuck up…  _

 

“I… I’m the sniper… the weapon’s expert… I take the high ground and watch out for threats agains’ my team… I get them a’fore they get us… Don’cha’ see… I messed up. I saw that guy come out… and I shoulda seen he was carryin’, shoulda had him in my sights from the moment he was an unknown threat, or at the least, shoulda warned Chris.”

 

Josiah moved to sit on the oak coffee table directly in front of Vin. He dropped down, his hands clasped together as he stifled his frustration. 

 

“You got it all wrong, son. Or at least you’re just missing the most important point of what makes you and all the rest of us so good at what we do.”

 

Vin looked confused and even slightly determined to defend his guilt. 

 

“Listen Vin, Have you ever read the first line of the job description? I know everybody kind of glosses over it, but it couldn’t be any more pertinent to what we do or this particular situation.” 

 

When the young agent remained silent, the silver-haired man went on. 

 

“It says; The primary function of the team member is to support his teammates in the execution of their law enforcement duties. Do you know why we wrote that the way we did?”

 

Vin shook his head. In fact, he really didn’t look at any of the official paperwork short of having signed all the tax, health benefit and beneficiary forms when he first transferred over. Even then, he gave them little more than a cursory glance, signing where he was told and rushing to get through the process before anyone changed their minds. 

 

“Because no one’s perfect, Vin. Because it takes a TEAM to do this job even halfway right on the best of days… because this job eats up the best of men and spits them out - and that’s if they come out alive at all… Because the whole point is to create a team that brings the best together, augmenting each other's strengths and supporting the weaknesses… and yes, Vin, because we EACH watch each other’s backs. Not just one watching the rest… not just you, being solely responsible for everyone else… but all of us, in our own ways, keeping an eye out when one of us needs a helping hand.”

 

He leaned forward and took the young man’s trembling jaw in his hand, carefully lifting it upward. 

 

“Do you understand what that means, son?”

 

Vin met his eyes, nodding slowly.

 

“But ‘siah, I  jus’ can’t get past feelin’ responsible… no matter what ya’ say… still feel like I screw’d up.”

 

It was Buck’s turn to take the lead. 

 

“Listen Junior, I get that you’re carryin’ a heap of guilt, but if you just shut out all the noise for a bit, and think on this. I’m the one that shoulda got that weapon off that piece of shit. If anyone’s responsible for Chris, its me. I was right there. I saw that gun, and I didn’t react fast enough or the right way to keep him from shooting our best friend. I had the chance to pull my weapon and nail that fucker right in the skull before he ever pulled the trigger. At the very least, I could’ve stopped him from firing that gun.”

 

“But…”

 

Buck raised his hand to silence the smaller man. 

 

“Nope, you can’t claim all the blame, Tanner. It ain’t gonna work that way. And I’m not gonna be the one to explain to Chris why his best friend is starving himself to death and trying to destroy his liver in record time because of misplaced guilt. Hell, Vin, like Josiah said, there’s more than enough times that this job goes to hell in a handbasket, let’s don’t take on the extra burden when some freak-assed thing like this happens.” 

 

Tanner seemed to consider the words from both men, absently noticing that the condemning voices in his head were suddenly gone. 

 

“I… I guess I don’ need Larabee pissed off at me on top a’ everthin’ else,” he admitted after a moment. 

 

Buck chuckled and pulled his young friend in for a gentle hug. 

 

“I hate to tell ya’ Junior, but ol’ Chris is gonna spot those stitches, and that purty purple your got goin’ on there on the side of your head. Oh, and how ya gonna explain that hand? Pissed is gonna be an understatement.”

 

Vin shrugged, his face flushing with color. 

 

“I s’pose I can just blame it on his pain meds? Make him think he jus’ dreamed it all.”

 

WIlmington laughed again, relieved to hear that at least a little of Tanner’s wit was making a reappearance. 

 

“Well, how ‘bout we work on makin’ you look a little less like a refugee? I’ll go see what we can round up beyond PB&J and I’m sure Nate’s just burstin’ to check you over again.”

 

Vin nodded, still sullen but offering a wan smile. Buck rose, giving the haggard sharpshooter a loving slap on the top of his leg. 

 

“It’s gonna be okay, Vin. Trust ol’ Buck.” 

 

He left the room, casting a sideways look at the profiler who remained seated; a look of concern still covering his face.. 

 

A long moment of silence filled the space, neither Vin nor Josiah speaking. After a while, the older man cleared his throat while Vin shifted uncomfortably. 

 

“This doesn’t end here you know, Vin.” Josiah began. “While I’m happy that you seem to be ready to accept Buck’s reasoning, and mine too for that matter… you gotta realize that what’s been happening here these past couple of days, it’s just not healthy for you. You aren’t gonna be able to keep this up and keep on the team if you do this. You can’t just sweep all this under the rug like it never happened. And besides, you’re not gonna fool Chris, not for long at least.” 

 

Vin’s heart rate sped up, panic filling him and draining the color from his face. 

 

“Whatdya’ want from me, ‘siah? I heard what you and Buckin had to say. And I’ll promise ya’ here and now that I won’t go off on another bender like last night. I learned my lesson and ‘side’s it don’t solve the  _ real _ problem… only makes it worse.”

 

The behavioralist shook his head. “You’re gonna kill yourself, Vin. Either physically or mentally or both. This idea of yours that you have to be responsible for the rest of us, you can’t live up to it… it’s impossible. You’re just setting yourself up to fail.”

 

Vin snorted derisively.  “But I already have… that’s the point, don’t ya’ understand?  I gotta be better. Can’t make those sort a’ mistakes… the price is too high.”

 

“Do you hear yourself, VIn? Do you realize what you’re asking of yourself?”

 

Vin pushed up from the couch, his body rebelling but his resolve superseding the discomfort. He barely bit back a groan, the pain shining through on his face. 

 

He took a couple of tentative steps toward the hallway before stopping to turn back and face his older friend.

 

“It’s worth it, ‘siah. For you, the others, or Chris… it’s a small price to pay. But it’s a price I’ll gladly pay… for my family.”

 

Josiah could only stare, his heart heavy as he watched Vin turn and make his way slowly down the hallway, his shoulders slightly slumped, his head down, but his determination as steadfast as the willpower that was keeping him on his feet. 

 

“Yes, Vin… I know you will… and isn’t that the shame.”

  
  
  
  


_ *** finis *** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks much if you made it this far. Hope it was worth your time. Leave a comment if you have some thoughts about it. I hope to be back sometime soon. Tree


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